Barefoot perspectives: What does Mike wear under his kilt?

 

Back at the end of 2012 (when ASA race numbers still arrived before the new year) I called Mike* and suggested we run the Varsity Kudus 15km barefoot.

Mike, an early doyen of barefooting in SA had taken minimalism to the next level with his sandals and trademark kilt. But we had both been dabbling with pure barefoot running for a while, including for Mike, some desperate quarry running which required the carrying of a brick for who knows how many miles (Bert’s Bricks race of old).

I remember that Kudus run very well as does Mike, I am sure. There was a certain magic in those moments that paused for a long time as we ran connecting earth and sun. 

But Mike’s network of friends and acquaintances prevents the mere running of a race. It becomes a banter-fest of lung-busting exertion. The reason for wearing a kilt, he said, was that no-one noticed he was running barefoot. As a vision-stopper, the kilt kept the gaze of the multitudes from drifting downwards. “What’s under that kilt?” was the standard question. And now hidden in plain sight we see it’s merely a black … err … something.

In spite of the kilt, barefooting in those days attracted much astonishment and some admonition. Yes, it was not uncommon for a race referee or official to administer a dose of reprimand (and on rare occasions mild hostility). “Hoekom draf jy so?” and “Wat makeer jou, waar is jou tekkies?”.

But Varsity Kudus was a Wits run and cares about equality, poverty, Varsity fees and other “wicked” problems left little room for worry about two barefooters.

In those stronger days we ticked off the kays fairly briskly and afterwards spent a while lounging in the summer sun and probably drinking a craft beer. Those miles led to more and longer barefoot runs for myself as well as Mike. In reflection we were fortunate to be at the forefront of the changing mindset that still dictated shoes as integral to the running experience.

Today though, “barefoot” as a descriptor, is appropriated by a wide range of branded goods that hope to draw on the essence and spirit of unshod bipedalism. But the real benefits, both physical and spiritual, remain strongest for those whose feet are truly open for the world to see.

Andrew - Oct 2022

 

*Mike Henning

 

Running the 50km Mont-Aux-Sources Challenge in the Drakensberg, South Africa

 

Exiting the chain ladders to the summit plateau

I gripped the first rung in the gyrating “ladder”. “Focus, think, concentrate” I said to myself. All I had to do was ascend this darn thing for 20 metres and I would be on the summit plateau at over 3000 metres. Yet so much could go wrong, especially with my cavalier finesse for not paying attention.

One ladder rung at a time. One hand, then a foot, then a hand, and so on. Three point climbing. Don’t be clever. Or fast.

My eyes peeped above the “within-grasp” horizon. The expert attendants unclipped me from the safety rope and I was ushered forward into big sky territory. This was the top. The hard part was done. The climbing was behind and from here it was all downhill. Kind of.

Drakensberg Amphithearte, South Africa

It had started six weeks earlier. The out-of-the blue email announced: “We’re happening. The Mont-Aux-Sources Challenge is on!". Covid lockdowns had ratcheted down a level and set forth a stampede of trail event confirmations. I paid my money and swore allegiance. I was in. This was my run.

The 50km Mont-Aux-Sources Challenge, hosted by the very competent WildSeries team, is promoted as SA’s queen of trail runs. Irrespective of being a queen it is quite ruthless in heading straight up the Drakensberg for about 25km’s to the “mount of sources (rivers that is)” at over 3000m and then more or less straight back down again. The total ascent as per my watch later was a little more than 2200m. Not too bad on paper, bad enough in delivery!

Six weeks of training meant two weeks for ramping up effort, two weeks for peaking (optimistic term for me) and two weeks of tapering. A miracle of schedule miniaturisation, unmatched in training journals, was my goal.

And six weeks later I apprehensively headed to the Drakensberg with at least one training run of 17km on the road, my longest. To help, I had fashioned a new pair of sandals with a hint of reinforcement under the balls of the feet to guard against sharp stones. I used these to run a few hill repeats at Klippies* and they felt quite good while being relatively light too.

Upon arrival mandatory covid testing ensured we were good to enter the Mahai campsite where I quickly pitched a tent and registered for the next mornings run.

Who sleeps well before a big race? Definitely not after 4am by which stage I was brewing coffee while eating muffins and dates. Time crawled until the race start especially as my group was scheduled for departure at 5:50am almost 2 hours away. It was good. 5:50am meant that I could get away with not wearing a headlight which meant a weight saving over the entire route.

Two minutes before my start a lapse of memory (increasingly frequent nowadays) saw me hastily unpack my trail bag to check that all items were included. Why the self-doubt? Nothing was missing and I loped into the start zone with a handful of talkative runners and 20 seconds spare.

The first 10 kays out of the valley to the top of the “little berg” were very reaffirming. I was cautious, slow and deliberate. Focussing on cadence and footstrike I tried to be light and nimble in the now. The pathway was good, the light sublime, the air unmoving and the scenery ageless. Not paying attention to others, I listened to my breathing, set minor goals by the tens or hundreds of metres as I sank into my zone.

I passed a few others and realised the first 10 kilometres where almost done as we approached Witsieshoek, a refreshment point almost halfway up this mountain of basalt. By now we were up about a 1000 metres and the altitude started to impinge on my well-being. Many years ago I had experienced a bout of altitude sickness** in the Drakensberg spending a night at 3000m vomiting and nauseous. This memory lived on.

One of my many failings over the years has been an inability to master nutrition on the long run. Sometimes I have managed quite well and at other times it’s been a disaster. On this occasion I had made a mental note to “eat” but even so conditions were railing against me. It was significantly cooler than anticipated and I had moved up the first section of the race more easily than expected. At Witsieshoek I refilled water, swallowed some gel and moved on.

And then, it came into view. Incredible! The next 10 kilometres and 700 or 800 metres of ascent soared above. Minuscule runners were hard to spot under the hundreds of metres of basalt cliffs. The spectre was astounding and terrifying. Me? Up there? The immense scale cemented the word ‘challenge’ in the Mont-Aux-Sources trail run. Damned if you don’t, damned if you do.

This is what we seek. The drama of nature. And us as insects on the canvas. Lyrical, poetic, tragic. I still had so far to go. I greeted the support crew at the base of the chain ladders. “Are your feet OK?” I was asked. “My feet are fine! It’s my legs that are not OK!” I retorted.

Working my way up and over the chain ladders to the summit brought a certain trepidation ... dressed as insouciance. Nausea was now my close companion. The distance across the lumpy tufted high plateau looked ominous. The cold wind howled hungrily and out-of-the-blue rain pelted my fragile legs. A gusty marshal tent beckoned far ahead. “Get there” I said.

Beforehand we had been told, “once atop the Berg wonder over to the edge of the escapement and look mesmerisingly at the Tugela Falls – the world’s highest – as they plunge from the top of Mont-Aux-Sources”. Such touristic niceties escaped me as I turned northwards following the direct route to the top of the Gully, our escape route from this playground of eagles. And vultures. And trolls.

The lone runner about 80 metres ahead of me suddenly stopped. Removing his pack in the fierce breeze he wrestled is leggings from the compartment and fitted the flailing fabric with erratic moves. I watched. He was doing the right thing and my cold limbs messaged me to do the same. Think, act, do. Yes, I could be a hero too! But damn it, it was hard, like trying to swot a fly with a dishcloth. I toiled agilely, subduing my lycra legging quarry in the wind and moved, better dressed, to the top of the Gully.

I had never been to this part of the Drakensberg and I had no idea what the Gully was. Surprising me was the stout roped cast down its narrow and steep confines. I clutched the rope and moved down the loose scree. This was cool as long was no one above you dislodged rocks to cascade into your head. Perhaps it wasn’t as steep as my fears suggested. 

Exiting the Gully the helpful race crew greeted me while secretly checking that I wasn’t certifiably a danger to myself. They permitted me to continue.

The long, long descent started from this point. I had made a commitment to eat properly. But everything had gone wrong, again. I felt drawn and quartered, I prayed for more oxygen, I knew cramps were a heartbeat away. Stopping to urinate, which is a good sign, I saw my urine was deep brown, which is not a good sign. I immediately started drinking. Much more. My nausea waned.

Struggling, I watched as a few runners passed me with little effort. I needed something and at a pop-up refreshment station I ate potatoes and bananas with some water and a big restock of water bottles. Moving forward I started to feel better and by the time I turned back onto the pretty mountain path, which would guide me downhill to the Mahai starting point, I moved with increased resolve and marginal purpose. Interestingly my 5km splits going up were the same as those coming down.

The Drakensberg is spectacular. Moving across its geography is alluring and enticing. The seduction is complete when you run out of air and legs, with only the vista as your friend. Beautiful as it is, you always have further to go, on less.

Thanks to WildSeries for hosting this beautiful event. Again. 

I completed my run in Vegan Ultras a hybrid sandal used by a handful of ultra runners. It has a 12mm three-compound sole including a softer midsole, a grippy non-slip footbed and a treaded (but not overly) outer sole. The lacing is from the Vegan X. It works.

 * Klipriviersberg Nature Reserve

** Although rare, altitude sickness can occur at levels as low as 3000m because the illness is more a result of the rate of change in altitude than the actual specific altitude level.

 

Tips for Transitioning to minimal or barefoot running

Running Free on Easter Island - Rapa Nui

Like a dog with a Pavlovian response I’d come to expect the aroma as I crested the rise. The climb up the hill away from the small harbour of Hanga Roa had me breathing hard, but it was that pleasant warmed up feeling of physical exertion one gets when you hit your stride. The sweet smelling fragrance of freshly baked bread washed over me. I slowed down to savor the moment inhaling deeply as I did so.

Around me the residents of Rapa Nui were rising in the dawn. Trucks, workers, coffee and cigarettes, the hallmarks of blue collar workers world-wide starting their day was no different on Easter Island. The men on Rapa Nui have fantastically long hair, which is either worn in dreadlocks, braids or tied up with colorful bandanas. This combined with an obviously passionate interest in tattoo art gives the dawn work gangs a pirate and outlaw appearance.

From my edge of the village I now have many options to explore the island on foot. To the North directly ahead is Maunga Terevaka. I know it well having run through a tropical rainstorm and over many false summits the day before to claim the highest peak on the island. Half way up and in the identical place on the way down the local Manu Toke Toke hawk, cries out, a lone sentry to my ramblings in the wilderness. From there you can look over the entire island.

To the south is the volcanic crater of Ranu Kau, home to Orongo the sacred village of the Bird Man Ceremony or Kavi-Kavi as the locals call it and the final resting place of the first king of Rapa Nui, Hotu Matua. To the southeast is the distinct shape of Ranu Raraku, the birthplace of the mystical and Megalithic Moai, which have become synonymous with Rapa Nui worldwide. Beyond that is Tangariki, perhaps the most well-known of all the Ahu’s, a place where fifteen giant Moai stand lined up watching over an ancient village which is now long gone.

The sentries remain, quiet and impressive monuments to what must have been an extraordinary devotion. Further still to the south east is the Poike point, the most dangerous point on the whole island. High cliffs, huge waves and strong ocean currents make this a place local fishermen and ocean goers treat with respect.  

Today I choose the footpath of the secret caves, known as Ana Kakenga which lie half way along the west coast. As the dawn unfolds in glorious cotton wool colours, each minute unwrapping itself to reveal a startling sunrise. The scene is complete with black storm clouds and a tropical rainbow. The summit of Maunga Trevaka slumbers in a cloak of thick cloud. I love the myriad micro climates that all co-exist at the same time on the island. The path winds along a low cliff infused with the smells of the ocean waves below. I see puddles in amongst the lava strewn pathway which tell the story of a rain shower that preceded my passing.

I wonder how Konui would run this trail. Konui is the island’s greatest athlete. In the tradition of the Rapa Nui he runs, swims, climbs, dives and paddles his outrigger canoe except he does it better and with more humility than anyone else. He is a descendent of the Bird man athletes of old who competed annually in the ‘Kavi-Kavi’, a test of courage and skill designed to avoid warfare and settle leadership for the ancient clans. In this event the best athletes from each clan on the island would race down a 500m cliff, paddle across a ferocious current to a small offshore island. There they would seek out the nest of the Manutara bird and steal one of the eggs. The first man back to the sacred village at Orongo on the top of those giant cliffs with his egg intact was declared the winner and secured the leadership for his tribe for the following year.

“Heee-hooo… Go, go go!” Chanted Konui in his wonderfully warm and friendly voice as he showed me an opening in a reef pass several days before.

To say I’d been bowled over by the warm hospitality of the Rapa Nui residents was an understatement. As I ran the ancient trail my thoughts wandered to how closely to nature the Rapa Nui live. Their island bears them the most beautiful fresh fruit and vegetables and the ocean provides them with a bountiful supply of seafood. They have a very strong spiritual connection to the island and the ocean around it. They share both their spiritual awareness and the bounty of their island paradise with a love that is difficult to describe. I found myself profoundly affected by the people and customs of Rapa Nui.

As I felt the salt spray settling on my skin and the sun’s first touches of warmth on my face I experienced that feeling we humans sometimes get when moving through the landscape, powered by our own means, alone with our thoughts and connected to nature. In a word, freedom!

In my case perhaps enhanced by the fact I’d chosen to bring no conventional running shoes to Rapa Nui. Instead I decided to experiment with a recommendation from a friend, the Yeti from t-rockets.com, more a ‘Jesus sandal’ than a shoe. My children tagged me in ‘Kook of the day’ on Instagram when I first wore it, and my running friends laughed openly in my face when I arrived to join them for a trail on Table Mountain in South Africa. It was me who had the last laugh on Rapa Nui though. The lava rock is merciless. There is absolutely no way you can move swiftly over the terrain barefoot. The T Rocket let me feel the terrain but protected my feet from being butchered. I was free to run as far or as fast as I liked but I still felt connected to the land while I did so.

This run would be my last on the island after an incredible two week stay. During this time, I’d sensed a spiritual dawning taking place inside of me every bit as spectacular and beautiful as a Rapa Nui sunrise. As I turned to run back downhill towards the pretty little port town of Hanga Roa, my stride lengthened and I ran with confidence down a trail I knew well. The landscape blurred around me as my speed increased and I reveled in the joy of simple movement.

Doing anything you love in an exotic location is a wonderful adventure and food for the soul. Sharing those adventures with old friends and new builds special bonds between you that can transcend age, gender and even language constraints.

As I re-entered the little town, I slowed my pace to accommodate the bustling pedestrian traffic. With the sun truly up it wasn’t just the construction gangs and the bakery that were up. Everywhere people went about their business in the time-honored way of island life. A friendly toot, a wave, no rush. The women all wearing beautiful flowers in their hair.

As I turned my final corner and hit the rutted path to where I was staying I pondered just how valuable this time on Rapa Nui had been for me. You can’t grow unless you step out of your comfort zone. I realized just how much coasting I’d been doing until this trip. I’d had my eyes opened by my friend who had just swam 40 miles non-stop around the island in nineteen hours, becoming the first person ever to do so, but that’s another story entirely…

In the meantime, I resolved to dig a little deeper and reach a little higher with my own endeavors and run free every chance I got.

For an account of Sarah Ferguson’s successful circumnavigation swim of Rapa Nui you can find it here: https://plasticoceans.org/swimming-rapa-nui/?fbclid=IwAR2qj8SND1_L-Hh_Bdj5yqt0xTiEhUnWecscyfg9dc53fea7ZiUZGtfZh0s

Images by Wofty Wild

The Hout Bay Trail Challenge 2018

Those who live in Cape Town know about the Hout Bay Trail Challenge but many outside of that city do not. I was one the runners that needed to carefully scour running calendars to find this little ... um ... gem. Forty trail kilometers did not seem too onerous, especially as I was training for the UTMB TDS but the devil is in the details and there it was, in clear view, 2500m of ascent. Yes! That's my run. Plane tickets and accommodation booked I was soon headed to Cape Town for a few days and The Hout Bay Trail Challenge.

Running on Table Mountain in cliched terms is trail running at its best. Underfoot the ground is very hard, mostly rock, always technical and engaging, with effervescently fresh air. Then there are the views and the simple pleasure of escaping city limits to the elevated natural environment. Table Mountain is a tonic.

The Hout Bay Trail Challenge runs around the eponymous village of Hout Bay, a discontiguous suburb of Cape Town. The route is a full circle starting and finishing at the small fishing harbour in the bay yet managing to take in a good 600m climb over the Karbonkelberg, more than 800m of Table Mountain, and finishing with a few hundred meters of climbing up Constantiaberg before dropping back down to the Atlantic Ocean for a 1000 meter beach dash (and a river crossing) to the finish.

We gathered at the harbour for a 7am start with a field of a couple of hundred runners split, if I recall correctly, into 2 groups. Why I was in the A group escaped me? Could I have been that cavalier when filling in an entry from? I like to start near the back and now I was in a small group of front runners with nowhere to hide. And did they sprint when the gun went off! A quick burst across a parking lot saw the leaders dash across the road and scurry up a vertical sandy chute hidden in the thick bushes. This was stuff that only locals could know. I followed slowly being the last runner in group A. The little sandy chute headed to another road that quickly ascended to a boom demarcating the end of vehicular access and the start of the mountain proper. We kept climbing and climbing. Not too steeply, but much longer than expected. Why did the uphill feel so long? From below, the Karbonkelberg had looked quite small and now it was turning into something substantial - a fully grown mountain.

There was no tapering or rest that had preceded my run. This was supposed to be just another training run and it caught me unexpectedly, very early into the 40 kilometers. I was working hard, too hard for my comfort. We got near to the top of karbonkelberg and like all real mountains we spent a while traversing the summit area. There was no immediate downhill relief and when it did arrive it came with some very steep and technical 3 or 4 meter steps that required careful 4 point climbing. The silent vigil of a marshal cautioned runners to slow down and get down safely.

At the start we were almost at sea level. Now a longish downhill section took us straight back to the point of zero elevation and the Sandy Bay sand dunes. I had trustfully followed some local runners and when they got disorientated in the small dunes, well, so did I. Where was the route? I kept moving north, up and down sand hills eventually catching a glimpse of runners working their way back south on a contour path about 100 meters above me. Damn! This was exasperating. To get to the other runners would require some serious bundu bashing and why, in the first instance, was I so low down (so deep, deep, deep, deep undercover in the words of Eddie Murphy)? Trail running is no province for self pity - I had to pretend to act tough.

We ran past Sol Kerzner's estate on the side of Little Lions Head and security personnel had unlocked a gate for runners to get access to a short road that took us to the first checkpoint at about 14km (top of Suikerbossie). 2 hours had been my optimistic estimate, 2h15 my realistic guess. Time lapsed was actually 2h30. So much for 30 years of running experience. The path away from the checkpoint headed straight for a steep rocky corner up to the back table of Table Mountain. This corner had a name which I forgot in a sea of steps. At first, leaving the checkpoint, I had ignored a Go Left sign choosing instead a pathway that headed directly towards the rocky corner looming overhead. Local walkers told me to keep going on my chosen route as it would lead swiftly to the ridge above. But no sooner had I run past these walkers and my single path multiplied into a labyrinth of trails under the conifers. Again, in polite terms I was displeased. I chose a path from the multitude of options and headed resolutely upwards trying to rejoin the main group I had stupidly moved away from earlier.

I trudged up this very steep and rocky ridge, at times using 4 point moves to get over obstacles. Passing a runner lying on the ground, with two medics in attendance, I heard his blood curdling screams as they tried to move him or release cramp. Something wasn't right. But passing the "dead" or injured is always mildly consoling and I focused on what was not wrong with me. I could still move. No cramps. Yet. It wasn't raining, even though the sun wasn't shining. Most importantly I was on the back end of Table Mountain, and I loved this place, remaining in full oblivion of how far it was to reach the reservoirs and get to the other side of the "table" where we would descend to Constantia Neck.

The top of Table Mountain has a unique aura. The immediacy of a million years pulses through you with a deep infra-sound wavelength. It is very special. It also has very long paths such as that from the reservoirs to the top of Nursery Ravine and on to the Rangers Jeep Track. Dammit, this was hard running. Others started to pass me ... I now the corpse.

A quick right turn off the Rangers Track plunged down a very steep and loose trail with horrible poles posing as steps. It was simply too risky for me to be reckless - I couldn't afford any mishaps a few weeks before my UTMB run. We headed to Constantia Neck, a checkpoint and a very popular meeting spot for Cape Town's outdoor lovers. Another 14km done. Another 2h00 optimistically estimated and another 2h30 gone. I was now 5 hours into this 40km event with only about 29km to show. On the plus side, only 11km to go. Maybe I could do it ... faster?

No such luck. Even though I thought I was fairly swift getting up Constantiaberg, my real nemesis after leaving the Neck, was the long descending contour that worked it's way back to Chapman's Peak Drive and the edge of the Atlantic. Many others ran past me and I trundled along. The spectacular vista appeased me. I tried not to care about pace. I needed to be running again within a day or two - an opportune yet dishonest excuse. I was tired.

I had elected not to run with a watch because I did not want time to distract me. And clearly it hadn't. My finish time was 7 hours and a few seconds, I think.

The Hout Bay Trail Challenge is a very good run from every respect. The route is absolutely splendid showing off Cape Town's best. It is spectacular. The terrain is varied and technical at times. It is a hard run  - more so than I have encountered on any equivalent distance in SA. But most specially, the people are wonderful, the finish in the yacht club was very convivial (I stayed for about an hour) and you get a free meal from Muriel's Munchies!

Note: All photos obtained from The Hout Bay Trail Challenge Facebook page, website and Google

Ultra Fiord 2017 100km Review: What They Didn’t Tell Me.

Some claimed to have been stalked by mountain lions at night. This is a myth. Patagonian foxes? Yes. Mountain lions, no. The foxes are very beautiful, small and rather slender with bushy tails as long as their bodies. You will see their eyes first in the beam from your night light and if you are lucky they will move to the side and inquisitively watch you pass, especially if you are moving as slowly as I was.

Source: Google Images

I had come to Puerto Natales in Patagonia, Chile, to run the third staging of the Ultra Fiord event. My distance was 100km while the event also offers a 50km, 70km and a 100 miler. What a splendid small town Puerto Natales is. Quaint and true to the adventure spirit, it attracts straight-talking unaffected people from around the world to explore and connect with the Patagonia wildscapes. On arrival I headed straight to Estancia Nandu a coffee, restaurant, clothing and memorabilia shop. Looking for a good coffee (and the coffee in Chile is consistently excellent) and some food, I shared a table with JF from Germany. It took a few seconds for us to realise that we were both entered into the same event and despite the language barrier we exchanged stories that had brought us to this place. He shared details of some of his previous exploits including a multi-day run across the Atacama Desert and a few Paris-Dakar motorcycle races under the belt. He had also visited my home country, South Africa, where he had completed the Roof of Africa rally. I was immediately at a loss for words.

The Ultra Fiord makes use of several locations in Puerto Natales for runners to complete all the pre-race processing. It took a short while for me to work out the exact location but once done I set about doing the kit check, getting race drop-bags and t-shirts (which were really cool), attending race briefing and then handing in my one drop bag for relocation to the 40km checkpoint on the route. This process unfolded over a two day period and I was very happy to have arrived a couple of days early and not have any pressure to figure out the “system”. Although English is not that common in Puerto Natales the race officials included several people who were proficient and there were no issues at all. On top of this, and including the local people, everyone without exception was extremely friendly and amiable meaning that any language barrier was never more than a minor hindrance.

The weather preceding the event was cold and at times rainy yet the forecast for race day/s was consistently optimistic. At the start, on Friday, the sun would shine on an exceptional windless day in Patagonia. During the briefing we were warned that we should “take lots of warm clothing” and in heed of this advice I had bought a new thermal vest to add to my kit. In hindsight this was prudent. During the pre-race briefing we were also alerted to the fact that the route had been altered and significantly we would no longer be bussed but shipped to the start. Yes, a boat ride was in store for us. “Why do you change the start at this late stage?” someone asked accusatorily at the briefing. “Ahh!” the reply, “we have a saying in Patagonia. It is ‘That’s Patagonia!’”.

Race briefings were conducted in a few languages including English. This was the English session.

On race morning we headed up a fiord in a powerful catamaran with a large enclosed deck area with tea and coffee provided. Our boat trip was shared with a group of tourists out for a day trip. The voyage lasted a couple of hours and when we were dropped off at a remote spot the tourists remaining on-board cheered and waved, wishing us runners well. What a superb way to start a trail run.

The drop-off point and start was at the head of the fiord above

The start location was at Balmaceda, a cottage used by hikers and other adventurers passing through the area. Alongside Balmaceda is a huge massif of rock and ice that had been clearly visible from Puerto Natales beforehand. It was impressive in scale and now arriving at the base of this mountain the scale of our adventure became clear.

We each had a race “passport” which required signatures from those manning all checkpoints. This included the start and when all passports were signed, we were ready to go albeit a little behind schedule at 11H30. In Patagonia the sun rises at 8am and sets at 8pm. Thus while an 11H30 start seems late it is more akin to 9H30.

Having climbed up to this ridge from the left we moved right to the first encounter of snow.

We were off and almost immediately started climbing. At first a fair amount of scrub, then shorter grass and hardy weathered bushes and finally rock and snow. This took a couple of hours and I was impressed by the fact that most runners were moving deliberately and not too quickly. What struck me was the number of runners using trekking poles and I wondered whether I should have prepared differently. We soon reached the edge of a ridge which we moved across to gain access to a huge snow and ice filled valley. Scrubby, steep climbing was now behind us as we entered the real mountains. The ground underfoot changed from firm course gravel to loose shale type scree. It was at this point while descending a little, as we moved sideways from the crest of the ridge, I stepped down on to some loose stones which gave way and crashed downwards faster than I anticipated. First I teetered and then I fell. Rather than falling backwards I toppled forwards, head first down the steep rocky scree. Valiantly putting out my arms to arrest my fall, gravity dominated and my head crashed into the rocks. I lay still for a moment instantly realising that this was not clever. The runners a little way behind called out to check if I was OK. I pulled myself up and signalled “yes” all is fine. Moving upwards and onwards I looked at my hand which was bleeding and then tasted blood in my mouth too. It was my lip – a minor cut. Using my buff I mopped my face until the bleeding stopped. A medical checkpoint was coming up and I needed to look good for the inspection. But I thought how quickly things can go wrong and in a remote spot such as this, things going wrong can escalate rapidly. I needed to focus.

We worked our way up the rocky valley encountering more and more snow, soon arriving at a point where it was impossible to continue (as runners) on the contour. A steep descent to get to the base of the ice and snow in the couloir was needed. And so we had a 50m hand-over-hand rope descent. It was not a true abseil but it was pretty close. If you elected to let go of the rope your problems would have cascaded rapidly. 

Slowly we moved to the foot of the snow field. The Frenchman near me said “you do not need spikes, your shoes are good”. What do I know, having never done this before? So I walked up the snow field in my Hokas. But pretty soon the snow turned to ice and pretty soon the gradient increased to the extent that I felt a little precarious and a small misstep could be a long slide down. At this point I knew I needed my spikes packed at the bottom of my bag. There was nowhere to sit and nothing to hold on to. Trying inelegantly to mimic the precise balance of a ballerina, I removed my bag, extracted the ice-spikes, put my bag on again (there was nowhere else to put it) and then managed to pull the highly tensioned ice spikes over my shoes, one at a time, flamingo style, perched vertiginously on the ice incline. Desperate inelegance at its most profound. I am South African and the words ‘snow’, ‘ice’ and ‘skill’ should not be used in any combination near my name.

Moving up the ice we hit another roped section exiting the couloir onto a wide neck, only to immediately descend a larger better formed glacier. By this I mean a field of ice with proper crevasses as I had seen in picture books. We jumped over some and others we were guided around by experts cautioning us to avoid dark ominous bottomless holes in the icy surface. After moving off this glacial funpark I turned back capturing the picture below showing the extent of our adventure. This was truly remarkable in every respect for a bloke that not a month earlier was running the Addo Elephant trail in temperatures above 40 degrees Celsius.

We descended this glacier from the top right and exited bottom left.

Capping it all was an azure sky and beautiful warm sunshine on a windless day. We had the best weather Patagonia could offer and I pondered how different things could be if the weather was inclement. We were blessed in this vast dramatically beautiful lansdscape

Leaving the glacier we moved up a steep and long rocky section which entailed some very exposed clambering both traversing and moving upwards. My spikes were still attached and I wondered how secure they were, noticing that the Italian ahead had spikes that were flailing uselessly around his right heel. The sharp rocks must have severed part of the rubber straps. I hoped mine would last because they really worked supremely well even on the rock. We soon reached the top of the rock work and yet another steep decline of ice and snow faced us. My legs were weakening and time was moving slowly. This ancient frozen landscape moved like slow poison and I was its quarry.

Finally we exited the snow zone dropping through long tricky scree fields. And then all of a sudden we hit the mud. The peat. The bog. Treacherously draining and capriciously unforgiving the mud lasted a few Patagonian hours as time slowed to a crawl. It was getting dark and my plan to be at Estancia Perales, the drop-bag point at 40kms, before sunset, receded from hopeful possibility. It was simply taking forever. Our modern urgent pulse of time had slowed to a prehistoric grind. The light in the wooded trail sections disappeared. It was supposed to get dark at 8pm but by 6pm I was donning my headlights for the boggy groves. A forlorn despair set in as I realised Ultra Fiord was my master, I the wretched peon.

Source: Ultrafiord.com

Estancia Perales beckoned like an oasis, an invisible beacon finally materialising in the darkness a solid 2 hours behind my expected schedule. But what the heck. I opened the door to the large warm populated room and instantaneously there was a raucous outburst of cheers and clapping. I looked around, those inside were welcoming me? The cheering was for me? What a surprise, what a delight! My spirits lifted instantly and a reciprocal smile spread on my face. Quickly learning the rules of the game I too joined the joyous applause when a runner staggered in from the dark. Simply superb.

After a refreshing change of clothing, eating and replenishing my supplies I headed out into the darkness for the next 60 or 70 kilometres (the total route distance was said to be 112km). Instantly I was hit with bone-numbing cold and I immediately retraced my steps to the refuge. I needed more clothing. The temperature would drop to a few degrees above zero and this in itself was a perverse blessing as the nights before the run the temperatures had been sharply lower. We had been warned that cold is the enemy and pre-emptive adornment is best. I re-emerged from the warm room with 5 layers including a microfibre jacket. For the rest of the night I was actually comfortably warm.

The second last checkpoint: Sierra Dorotea. Source: Ubertino Alberto.

The long night began with a gravel road. There is not much to report. I missed a key turn-off, I spent nearly an hour retracing my steps. I climbed over a fence to regain the route and followed the lights of other runners. I kept track of the slow hours but not the distance. I struggled at several points to follow the reflective-pole route markers which at times had fallen over or were simply too far apart for my faint headlight. I changed headlights. I changed batteries. I saw foxes and eventually I arrived at Sierra Dorotea – a shack and a checkpoint. Hooray, another signature in my race passport. And sunrise. The sky was cloudy and the threatening rain still failed to materialise. Conditions … perfect. Me …. less so.

Only 16 kilometres to go. Being able to see the countryside was a welcome change and we went through very beautiful zones including a lake at the top of a hill and long green meandering pathways downwards to Puerto Natales. My pace had been reduced to an alternate jog walk routine. It worked imperfectly and was deeply frustrating. My brain said run, my legs rebelled. Is this what the purists call “self-transcendence”, for me it was more aptly described as self-rejection. My body was giving up on me. No glory.

They told me I was the second master in. No reflection on my time! Source: Corredor Promedio

I reached the finish accompanied by a local non-competitive runner. She insisted on encouraging and cajoling me to maintain a fair pace over the last few hundred meters. What a surprise! What a delight. That’s Patagonia.

Other notes:

Ultra Fiord is a serious undertaking and technically exceeds anything I have encountered within the “trail run” genre. This was expected.

The 2017 weather was exceptionally good. Amongst those that I chatted to afterwards the feeling was that poor weather conditions, which are in fact common, could significantly alter the nature of the undertaking (as is true for most running events).

The temperatures are very cold at night and can be much lower than that experienced on the 2017 event. We were suitably alerted to be appropriately kitted but more importantly to maintain body temperature by dressing pre-emptively.

Thanks to Alberto for dinner on Sunday night and for sharing banter and pics.

Almost all my running is in sandals and some barefoot. I chose to wear Hokas for this run and found them amply capable of the task (other than where spikes were required).